


what good is my heartbeat, cold in the ground?

by yesterday



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Grief/Mourning, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-05
Updated: 2017-09-05
Packaged: 2018-12-23 16:19:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11993445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yesterday/pseuds/yesterday
Summary: Chris knows three ways to put a spirit to rest. Peter’s grave is in Beacon Hills, the matte black headstone etched with the irrevocable truth. Salt and burn his bones, and he’d be gone. But that’s desecration on the worst possible level, considering how Peter died. The second way involves a lot of faith, and Chris isn’t much for God. The third?Well, sometimes the best solution is also the worst. He can at least hear Peter out and see what he wants. “What do you need help with?”“I’m dead,” Peter says, taking a step closer to Chris.Chris rubs a hand over his face. He takes a deep breath. “I know, Peter.”Peter doesn’t seem to hear him. “I’m dead, but Laura isn’t. Derek isn’t. And you aren’t.”





	what good is my heartbeat, cold in the ground?

**Author's Note:**

> the title is from [ghosts](https://soundcloud.com/madeinheights/ghosts) by made in heights.

“What are you doing here,” Chris says to Peter Hale after he nearly shoots him post finding him in his office in the middle of the night. 

“What, an old friend can't drop in for a visit?” Peter says, eyebrows raised. 

“No, I mean—”

“I need your help.” 

“You’re dead.” 

“Yes, I’m dead. Honestly, Argent, are you a hunter or not? Why are you so surprised by a visit from the supernatural?” 

Chris doesn’t tell him how his heart stopped for a second when he saw Peter standing by the window, illuminated. Whether it was because anyone would’ve had a near heart attack seeing someone who’s supposed to be six feet under standing in front of them, or if it’s the treacherously soft and sentimental part of him rearing its ugly head, he can’t say. Truth is, he’s still not entirely sure he isn’t dreaming, even with the weight of his gun heavy and solid in his hand. But the proof of it is before his eyes. Peter is see through around the edges, washed out like a grey scale photograph.

He’s being haunted by a dead man.

“Why are you,” Chris says, falling silent partway. _Why_ is as good a question to start with as any, but problem is, he’s got more than one question. And Peter’s shifting from one foot to another, discontentment filling the air like miasma. Dead or alive, Peter’s always been good at holding a room. 

Chris knows three ways to put a spirit to rest. Peter’s grave is in Beacon Hills, the matte black headstone etched with the irrevocable truth. Salt and burn his bones, and he’d be gone. But that’s desecration on the worst possible level, considering how Peter died. The second way involves a lot of faith, and Chris isn’t much for God. The third? 

Well, sometimes the best solution is also the worst. He can at least hear Peter out and see what he wants. “What do you need help with?”

“I’m dead,” Peter says, taking a step closer to Chris. 

Chris rubs a hand over his face. He takes a deep breath. “I know, Peter.” 

Peter doesn’t seem to hear him. “I’m dead, but Laura isn’t. Derek isn’t. And you aren’t.” 

“What do you want?”

“The fire wasn’t an accident.” 

“The police report said it was an electrical malfunction.” 

“Werewolves,” Peter says, “dying from a house fire caused by electrical malfunction? You know better than that.” 

Arson suspected had also been written on the report. Chris looked at it in the wake of the incident, the paper crumpling in his hands. So many dead. Peter, dead. He didn’t believe it. He didn’t want to believe it. 

“It was arson. Laura’s going back to Beacon Hills, and Derek won’t be far behind. She doesn’t know what she’s getting into.” 

“She’s investigating the fire?” 

“Hunters set it.” Peter’s face is half sunken in shadow, and Chris’s heart starts to race. Nausea rises fast in him, acid stinging the back of his throat. The Argents watch over the coast, from the edges of the northernmost border down to Mexico. Was he naive? To have written the Hale fire off as an accident, to have believed the police report? But they follow the Code, and the Hales were a peaceful pack. Half of them were human. They were peaceful. Laura and Derek were hardly more than children when the fire happened. 

And Peter—

“How do I know you’re telling the truth?” Chris says. 

“Don’t pretend you still believe every one of you follows the Code. Help Laura. Keep her and Derek safe.” 

Hunters have gone rogue before. They run a high track record of being a danger to not only innocent supernaturals, but also civilians. If Peter’s telling the truth, then Chris can’t turn a blind eye to it. He pinches the bridge of his nose. The headache throbs behind his eyes, and it’s no surprise that just like always, nothing with Peter is simple. “Peter—”

“You owe me,” Peter interrupts, fierce and fading, “you owe me.” 

Chris wants to reach out and grab him. Keep him here and demand answers, but Peter’s gone before he can, and his ears ring with the last echo of Peter’s words.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
He doesn’t make his move yet. To be honest, he isn’t sure what to do, and telling Victoria he’s taking off to Beacon Hills on the word of a ghost is a phenomenally bad idea. Since Allison was born, they’ve been discreet about hunting. But if his gut is right, Laura Hale returning to Beacon Hills is going to cause a stir. Ripples. It’s unavoidable. A Hale Alpha back on Hale land would attract attention sooner or later. 

Hopefully later rather than sooner. 

Every sign points to Beacon Hills. Chris is a hunter, not a detective, but he figures walking through what happened that night will be a good place to start. If it was arson, like Peter said, then he should look into why it ended up classified as an accident. See where to go from there. Cleaning in house is never easy, and the wrong kind of talk getting around will blow everything. Chris will have to work alone on this one. 

In some ways, it’s a relief. Ever since Peter appeared, something inside Chris uncurled itself from a deep sleep, and now it’s gnawing at his insides. He feels raw. 

But Peter hasn’t showed up since. Chris starts to wonder if it was all in his head, if he dreamed the whole thing up. If that was the last and only time he’ll see him again: angry, vengeful, and dead. The dead part bothers him the most. The rest wasn’t unusual for Peter.

It’s been quiet. He’s still tracking down Laura and Derek, trying to triangulate their movements through discreet word of mouth and legwork. 

Until he finds them, he sticks to routine. Work, research, and the odd job here and there. He’s on his way to pick up Allison when Peter pops up. 

“What are you _waiting_ for?” Peter demands. 

“Christ—” Chris says. The car swerves, and he rights it. Peter’s in the passenger seat. “What the hell, Peter.” 

“Oh, I’m sorry, did I scare the big bad hunter?” 

“Do you really want to do this?”

Peter’s expression says it all, and Chris sighs. He drives. He tries to swallow down the guilty relief that washes over him in waves. 

“You should make your move first, you know that. The best defense is a good offense.” 

“I’m going to pick up my daughter, Peter.” Allison is months away from getting her license; until she has it and Chris is sure she isn’t going to end up another statistic, he doesn’t mind picking her up and dropping her off at school. 

“What about my family?” 

Chris falls silent. He says, “I’m working on it.” 

“You’re working too slowly. I’m telling you to go before it’s too late.” 

“Too late for what?” Chris asks. Peter doesn’t answer him, and they turn to each other. Even the blue of his eyes is a pale imitation of what Chris remembers. Peter looks away first, staring out the windshield. He’s silent for the rest of drive. Chris could almost pretend he isn’t there, but Peter’s presence is overwhelming. 

The last time Peter was this quiet was in the hospital. It’s just as unbearable now as it was then. 

“I’ll go to Beacon Hills,” he says finally, pulling into the school’s pickup loop. “Happy?” 

“Ecstatic,” Peter says, and favours Chris with a small smile. It hits him like a sledgehammer, and he can’t breathe for a second. “Thank you.” 

There’s no guarantee he’ll find anything. Laura might be moving back to clear out anyone that shouldn’t be there on Hale territory because her mourning period’s almost up, but the trail’s been cold for years. He doesn’t know how much he’ll find, or what either Laura or Derek could possibly remember. If he were them, he’d try and put the past behind him. 

Well, they did take off across the country almost immediately after everything was settled, after the funerals, and Chris doesn’t blame them. He’d figured that it was because they couldn’t stand being here, where the ghosts and memories lurked at every turn. Laura packing up Derek and moving because she thought someone was still after them made even more sense.

Peter knows something, but he either can’t or won’t talk about it. Chris is guessing the former. 

“Don’t thank me yet,” he says to thin air. 

“Hey, Dad—” The car door opens and Allison drops into the seat, slinging her bag into the back of the car. She stops short, and mouths _sorry_ at him, holding her thumb and pink out against her ear, eyebrow raised in question.

“You’re fine,” he tells her. “I was just talking to myself. How was your day?”

“Ugh, pick me up ice cream worthy,” Allison says. “Can we?”

All of the moving around isn’t fair on Allison. It isn’t easy, always being the new student at school. Chris used to hate it, and he knows that she’s hoping they’ll stick it out in San Francisco until graduation. They might. They might not. So he says, “You know what? That’s a great idea. Let me guess, the place on the corner by the library?” 

“You read my mind,” she says, laughing. 

They go for ice cream. Allison mulishly orders two scoops; so does Chris. Both of them get brain freeze and ruin their appetites for dinner, and Chris is guiltily, incredibly grateful he has her.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Laura Hale— currently Laura Pierce— uses her credit card once in Illinois, a few times in between Nebraska and Wyoming, then fuels up at a gas station in Nevada. A direct shot from the east to the west. Chris checks on the old Hale property— it's in stasis, waiting. If Laura’s planning on doing anything with the house, it hasn’t shown yet. If she’s in Beacon Hills, he hasn’t seen her yet. 

“She’ll be back,” Peter says from beside him. 

Chris tucks his hands into his pockets, turning just enough to catch Peter in his line of sight from the corner of his eyes. “You’re pretty sure about that.”

“Laura’s Talia’s daughter. Neither of them could ever keep their nose out of anything.” 

“Seems like it runs in the family to me.” 

Peter snorts, and stares at the ruined house in front of them. 

“Would you have wanted to wake up?” Chris asks him. “From the coma.”

“I don’t know.” There are no burns marring the right side of Peter’s body right now, unlike the last time Chris saw him. “I don’t think I would have been the same man if I did. Loss changes people.” 

“Laura and Derek—” 

“My face was a mess. You think they would’ve wanted a constant reminder of what happened looking at them every time they saw me?” 

“You always were a vain bastard,” Chris says. 

“Guilty as charged.”

“They were your pack; I don’t think they would've cared as long as you were alive.” 

“What about you?” Peter asks. 

“I’ve seen worse.” 

“It was an unbearable agony,” Peter says. “To be trapped in my own body.” 

Chris digs his nails into his palms. “I’ll keep Laura and Derek safe. I’ll find out who did this.”

Peter doesn’t answer him (he’s vanished), but something else does.

He hears the car before he sees it, crunching along the gravel drive up to the preserve. The growl of the Camaro’s engine cuts short, and Laura Hale steps out from behind the driver’s seat. Werewolf doesn't necessarily equal inhumanly beautiful, but the Hales always were— are— and Laura is, with her inkspill of dark hair cascading past her shoulders and burning eyes.

“What are you doing here?” she says.

“I could ask the same of you.” 

Chris eyes her arms. They’re lax at her sides, her hands blunt tipped and human. The Browning’s a reassuring weight in his shoulder holster. Laura juts out her chin, and flips her hair. “This is my house. You’re trespassing, Argent.” 

“It’s county property now, unless you’re planning on buying it back,” Chris says. “And I meant, what are you doing back in town, Laura?”

“Don’t call me that.” 

“Are you and Derek both here?” 

“We haven’t done anything.” 

“I’m not trying to accuse you of anything.” Chris holds his hands up, placating, 

“Then what the hell do you want?” Laura’s voice rolls with a growl, and she steps forward. “You want me to believe this is a coincidence? You showing up here when one of us comes back?” 

“I know it wasn’t an accident. The fire. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? It’s why I’m here. To investigate.”

Laura stares at him for a long time. It’s a lot like being x-rayed, and Peter used to look at Chris the exact same way too, when he didn’t buy what he was saying. Chris says, “Do you want me to repeat myself?”

“Why do you care now?” 

Laura Hale is a werewolf, and Chris hunts down rogue supernaturals for a living. If he tells her that her uncle’s ghost is the one who told him to come, she might actually believe him. But then she’d ask why he would even listen to Peter. So he says instead, “Whoever did this to your family broke the Code. I can’t let that slide.” 

Her face is impassive. She’s in her mid-twenties now, Chris thinks, and when the fire happened, she was barely nineteen. There were younger children in the house. All of them burned. This close to the house, he can smell the acrid tang of ash, ingrained in what’s left of the house. It must be a thousand times stronger to Laura’s senses. 

There used to be colour and life here. The grass always sprung up thick and nearly to knee high, more wheat by that point than anything, parts of it trampled down by the younger Hales playing in the yard. Chris suspected they kept it long to keep some of the field mice around to practice a little hunt and pounce on, and Peter only laughed when asked about it. Someone would be supervising from the deck, lounging on the porch swing with a glass of something cold. 

Now, the house is crumbling, and the ground burnt around it. Chris keeps his back to it. He watches Laura.

Laura says, “I have a list.”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“What are you going to do with them?” he asks, because he needs to hear it said out loud.

“What do you think?” Laura says.

Chris doesn’t ask again.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
People start dying in town, and the local law enforcement weighs in on it. Chris has been helping Laura track them down one by one. He leaves everything that happens after up to her discretion, doesn’t tell her what to do or not do. But sooner or later, the “animal attacks” aren’t going to look like just animal attacks to a seasoned hunter anymore. Laura has to be doing it on purpose; trying to draw out the hunter she's after.

Kate rolls into town on a Thursday, says she heard he was down here and keeping an eye on things. Chris doesn’t know who told her. He doesn’t know what to do with her either, other than keep her out of Laura’s way. 

“Animals attacks, huh?” she says, blond hair gleaming like a mane around her in the autumn sun. Her eyes are sharp. 

“I’m looking into it,” he says with a shrug. He’s practised enough at lying that there’s only a slight twinge on his conscience. An idea that’s been lurking in the back of his head is skittering to the forefront, resting there uncomfortably. He handles it like a bomb he’s not ready to detonate. 

But sooner or later, it’s going to go off.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“Why didn’t you just tell me?” he asks Peter the next time he sees him while he’s running through the preserve. The words slip out from him, jagged and broken. His lungs are on fire. “You should have said something, don’t try to convince me you didn’t already _know_ \--”

The awful truth crushes his tongue for a moment. If he doesn’t say it, it won’t be true. It can’t be. But it is, and Chris can’t turn a blind eye to the facts anymore. 

Kate was the ringleader behind the fire. Chris had thought it strange, how all the dead were small time criminals, not hunters. No relation to one another other than the dots Laura had connected, no central figure bringing them together. 

“You needed to see it for yourself,” Peter’s ghost says, gliding through the trees and keeping pace with Chris. His face is a smooth mask. 

“Kate,” Chris says, and falters. He concentrates on running instead. 

“Don’t let her kill my family again,” Peter says.

He disappears. Chris swears, and runs faster. 

The Hale house bursts into view. The clearing is silent apart from the harsh pant of his own breathing. All of them, dead. Peter, dead. It turns over and over in his head like a mantra. Dead, dead, dead, and for what? How could Kate kill them? They were innocent. 

He goes up the steps and through the open front door, into the belly of the beast. 

Deeper in the house, he finds Kate standing next to a dark lump on the ground. Male. Those features-- it’s Derek. And laid out unconscious on the couch, Allison. He sucks in a sharp breath. Kate turns, smiling. 

“Oh, Chris,” she says, “I was wondering when you’d show up.” 

“What did you do to her?” he growls, stepping towards Allison. Kate gets in between them, clicking her tongue. 

“Nothing! Jeez, relax. I wouldn't do anything to my favourite niece. Just needed something to make sure you don’t get in my way, that’s all.” 

“We have a code, Kate. We only hunt those who—”

“—hunt us, yeah, yeah, I've heard it before. Well, they're hunting us now, aren't they? You saw those bodies, Chris, you and I both know they weren't animal attacks. Not the kind of animal the police thought it was, anyway.” Kate smiles, running a hand through Allison's hair idly. “But you knew that already. How long have you been helping her?” 

“Let Allison go,” he says evenly. 

Kate ignores him. “You were always soft on them.” 

“We don’t hunt innocents,” Chris interjects. He doesn’t need to hear about how he’s a failure to the Argent name. “I know what you did, Kate. You were behind the Hale fire. There were children in that house; humans too. That isn’t-- that isn’t what we do.” 

Kate laughs. “Dad told you to keep an eye on them, not make friends with them. I was doing you a favour, getting rid of them.” 

She raises her own gun when Chris makes an aborted move for his own, pointing it at Allison. His teeth grind down together, jaw aching. He says, “stop,” and, “you said.” 

“Yeah, I did, didn’t I?” Kate says. “I told you I wouldn’t do anything to her— as long as you don’t make me. So you better help me put down the alpha, and then we’ll get Allison back home and tucked into bed before morning.” 

What is he supposed to do? What else could he do? He can’t bear the thought of anything happening to Allison, who isn’t a part of this world. Shouldn’t have been dragged into this mess. The cold chill of his anger sets in, and he nods mechanically. “Fine.” 

“Good,” Kate says. “I knew you’d come around. Family sticks together, right?”

Chris doesn’t answer. He thinks of Peter at his side, throwing his lot in with Chris long after he should have stopped, asking Chris to help him. He thinks further back, to long, hot summer days tempered by the cool relief of the stream trickling around their ankles, and Peter flicking water at him. They were friends, against all odds. It was never supposed to happen. Maybe the Hales would still be around if he hadn’t gotten too close to them. 

_Don’t let her kill my family again._

Anger licks through him. Peter’s forced him into a corner, into making a choice between the right thing to do, and family loyalty. 

No. He’s being ridiculous. All Peter has done is forced him to see the truth. So Chris holds his hands up, and tells Kate he gets it, he’ll help her.

“That’s Derek Hale, isn’t it,” he says, nodding at the man on the half rotten flooring. He’s out cold. “She’ll come for him.” 

“That’s the plan.” Kate’s holstering the small caliber she was holding, trading it in for the heftier weight of her shotgun. 

Outside, a howl rings out. It reverberates through the woods, through the broken corners and slats of the house. Laura. Derek twitches on the floor. Chris sees, but Kate doesn’t.

Kate swings towards the front door, and Chris falls in beside her, closer to Allison than anything. She’s his priority. They wait.

The ceiling caves in. Plaster and debris rains down on them, dust and soot kicking up everywhere. The entire house shakes on its foundations. Chris throws himself over Allison, Laura’s roar ringing in his ears, the blast of Kate’s shotgun going off in quick succession making them pop. He kicks Derek Hale, kneeling and cutting through the wolfsbane rope circling his wrists.

“Get up. I know you’ve been awake for the last five minutes.” 

Derek snarls at him, scrambling to his feet. Chris turns and picks Allison up.

He doesn’t have time to second guess himself, shoving Allison into Derek’s arms. He draws his gun. “Go.” 

“Laura—”

“She’ll do better without you to worry about,” Chris snaps. 

Derek goes. 

Kate and Laura are circling each other, Kate goading, Laura half shifted, lips curled over her fangs. They’re both bleeding. Kate spots him first, and her eyes flick to where Derek and Allison should have been. 

“You can’t be serious,” she says. “You left her with him? Don’t you know what he’ll do?” 

“He won’t do anything to her.” 

Laura growls, and Kate shifts her weight on her feet. For a split second, she looks uneasy, then disbelieving when Chris levels his gun at her. Its weight has never been heavier than it was in this moment. But he holds it steady, and keeps Kate in his sights. 

“I’m your _sister._ ”

“Which makes you my responsibility,” Chris says.

He shoots her. Kate ducks out of the way, but the bullet catches her in the shoulder, knocking the gun loose from her grip. The recoil shakes his joints, and for a split second, he's relieved he missed.

Laura's on her in an instant, slamming Kate down. Kate scrabbles in her grip, but even weakened, Laura's got enough strength and determination to keep her pinned. Kate’s chest is heaving, eyes wide. She looks at Chris, choking out his name. He can't bear to look at her, meeting Laura's gaze instead. 

He nods.

Laura's roar is triumphant, and Chris makes himself watch her tear Kate's throat out. 

Afterwards, he cracks open shotgun casings and pours the wolfsbane into his waiting palm. He lights it up on a sooty dish and helps Laura shove it into the oozing injuries. They don't talk. The smell of smoke and ash stings his eyes. Chris tries not to think of Kate's body in the next room. 

She used to be different. Sweeter. 

Not someone who would have burned down a house full of innocents. 

“I'll take care of the body,” he tells Laura. 

Her colour was already coming back, but fatigue was set in the slump of her shoulders. Derek had slipped back in at some point, taken one look at Kate's body before Laura told him to go wait outside. Allison is with him, still out cold. Kate must have slipped her something, but her pulse had been steady when he checked it.

Laura looks like she can't decide on what she wants to say, and settles for, “What do you want me to do?” 

“Are you a good liar?” he asks her. 

She raises an eyebrow. “Better than Derek.” 

Chris rubs at his face with one hand. “All right. Here’s what we’ll say.” 

The official story is that Kate killed her co-conspirators in the arson to try and clean up her trail after Laura came sniffing around, suspicious of what happened in the house fire years ago. Chris agreed to help Laura because of his past with Peter. Once they got too close, everything boiled over into today’s mess, and Kate fled when she realised she was outnumbered.

Chris buries her body deep in the preserve. He piles dirt on top of his sister’s corpse. Kate looks like she could be asleep, if not for the ruin of her throat.

Cleanup is one of Chris’s main jobs. He’s used to it. He’s thorough, shuffling leaf debris and blending the overturned dirt with its surroundings until it’s impossible to tell anything ever disturbed it. Nothing marks Kate’s grave. Chris won’t forget the location. 

His fingers are numb from holding the shovel. He flexes them absently, crouching down by the patch of dirt. There are still things he needs to do. Easier if he doesn’t stop to think, doesn’t stop to wonder how he got here. 

A storm’s brewing on the horizon, the air damp and cool. Off in the distance, a mourning dove coos. Chris gives the grave one last look.

“Bye, Katie,” he says.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
After they wrap up at the police station, Chris pulls Laura to the side. Derek and Allison are sitting in the SUV, Chris keeping one eye on them through the windshield. 

“This isn’t a perfect solution,” he says to Laura. “Someone will come looking for Kate sooner or later. You shouldn’t stay here.” 

Laura sets her jaw. “We’ve been gone long enough.” 

Personally, Chris wouldn’t stay. Too many memories. But Laura’s clearly made of a different cut. Maybe she’s loathe to leave the land that her family’s held for generations for any longer, letting it fall into someone else’s hands. Maybe she’s tired of running. Maybe she thought this would be the best way to reclaim what’s hers. 

Chris doesn’t know. He doesn’t ask either. He’s tired. 

“I’ll take you back to your place,” he says instead. 

The drive is silent. Allison sits up front with him, the two werewolves in the back. Chris drops Laura and Derek off at the small apartment she’s been staying at. They watch him go. In the rearview mirror, Laura nods at him.

“Dad?” 

Chris’s gaze flicks to Allison. “Yeah, honey?”

“What the hell happened just now?” 

He has an agreement with Victoria. They aren’t supposed to breathe a word about hunting to Allison until she’s eighteen. They’re supposed to let her make her own choice. But these are extenuating circumstances, and he knows Allison. She won’t let him put it off until he’s had a chance to talk to Victoria (and god, what a mess that’ll be).

“Laura and Derek Hale,” he says, and stops. “They’re different.” 

“They aren’t human. Yeah, I noticed that.” Allison’s voice barely wavers. Chris is unbearably proud of her. “Laura’s eyes were red. She had _claws._ ”

“I should start at the beginning.” 

Allison looks at him expectantly. Chris switches lanes, and drives them towards the outskirts of town, towards Beacon Hills cemetery. 

On the way, he tells her the truth about the Argents. About hunting, about the supernatural, about werewolves. 

“That explains so much,” Allison says at the end of his explanation, following Chris out of the car. She shivers at the nip in the air, and Chris shrugs off his jacket, draping it around her. “But— what about Aunt Kate?” 

“Kate went against the code,” he says, leading the way through the neatly manicured lawn and gravestones. “She thought all werewolves were no better than animals that needed to be put down. She trapped the Hales in their home, and set them on fire.” 

They reach the row of graves, the headstones clean. Fresh flowers lie by each one. Laura must have been here recently. Every stone bears the same last name. He watches Allison read them, her lips moving silently. He keeps his eyes on her.

“Aunt Kate did this?” she says finally, quiet and lost. 

“She thought they were monsters.” 

“They seemed nice,” Allison says. “Derek asked if I was okay.” 

“They aren’t all that different from us,” he says. “Sometimes a werewolf will go feral, and it’s our job to take care of them if they do. But we do it by the code. And— people aren’t that different. Sometimes they just go wrong.” 

“You can’t judge everyone based on one person, right?” Allison says. 

Chris nods. “We used to live in Beacon HIlls. I had a friend here. Peter.” 

She follows his line of sight to the gravestone, mouth forming a small ‘oh’. Chris’s throat constricts. The stone is irrevocable truth, letters set deep into it. It reads: _Peter Hale, 1976 - 2005. The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death._

If only.

He says gruffly, “He was my best friend. That’s why I was helping Laura investigate.”

Allison is quiet. She looks at Chris, chewing on her lower lip. 

When she wraps her arms around him and buries her face against him, it catches him off guard. He’s slow to hug her back, resting his chin on top of her head. Peter’s grave wavers in front of his eyes until at last, it dissolves into a wetness running down his face.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Two days later, while the dust is settling around them, Chris has a drink in his office. The windows face west, and the blinds are half shut. The sunset seeps through, painting the room in orange and golds. Chris knocks back the whiskey in one long swallow. He stands, and peers out the window. 

The neighbourhood’s quiet. Madeline from down the block is walking her little yorkiepoo, the dog tugging at its leash. Allison and Victoria are gone on a mother-daughter bonding trip. It’s too quiet without them, even if Victoria gave him hell for what happened in Beacon Hills, and Allison has been a nonstop stream of questions since.

He wants to forget anything ever happened. 

“I hope you’re happy now,” he says, breaking the silence. 

“Thrilled.” 

Chris nearly drops his glass. He whirls around. Peter’s standing there, because of course he is, the late afternoon sun shining through him. Chris is irrationally happy to see him, and furious with himself for it. He’s mad at Peter too, even if it’s pointless to be upset with a dead man.

“Then why are you still here?”

Peter cocks his head at him. “I thought that was obvious. I’m here to say goodbye, of course. And thank you.” 

“I killed Kate,” Chris says. “I don’t want your thanks.” 

It's the first time he's said the facts out loud since it happened. The words taste bitter on his tongue. Peter steps closer. Neither of them say what hangs between them: that Chris did it for Peter. 

But Peter didn't make him do it. Chris chose to. It was the right thing to do.

He can't feel the press of Peter's palm against his cheek, and where there once was heat and pulse, there's nothing but a cool absence. It hurts.

“You saved Laura and Derek,” Peter says. “That's what matters. That's what counts.” 

Chris’s words die in his throat, strangled by emotion. He clears it with difficulty, voice rough. “You're the one I wanted to save.”

Peter leans his head against Chris's, and Chris shuts his eyes. He wants to pretend this moment could ever be tangible.

“I never blamed you for what happened,” Peter says. “In fact, if it’s any consolation, I loved you too much to.”

 _If it's any consolation_ — Chris barks with laughter, sharp and abrupt. “You're such an asshole.”

“There’s the face I wanted to see. Not that the entire broody hunter thing wasn’t appealing, but laughter suits you far more.”

Chris doesn’t have a clever rejoinder. Nothing left but an ache in his bones, the knowledge that they’re running out of time. That they’ve already run out of time. He looks Peter in the eyes, unwilling to miss the sight of him for another second.

“Don’t go,” he says.

“I’d stay if I could,” Peter says. “But I can’t.”

“Peter—”

“Christopher.”

Chris imagines he can feel the feather light brush of Peter's lips against his cheek. He reaches out in a futile effort to grab hold of Peter.

His hands close around nothing but empty air.


End file.
